BEGOB IS IT yerself?

It IS myself.

I see where the Christmas is on. Things is in full swing.

It cannot be denied.

I’ll tell you a good wan.

Pray by all means do so.

I’ll tell you a good wan about the brother. The brother is holdin’ a conversasioney in the digs Sahurda. All hands is to report for duty. A hand of cards, thrifle, plum puddin’ and a bit of a singsong. No jars, of course, bar a few bottles of stout in the pantry for the hard chaws. An ould-fashioned conversasioney, that’s what the brother calls it. Ladies present, o’ course.

I see.

Do you know why?

I do not.

The brother is for keepin’ the crowd in over the Christmas. Have your life if you looked for a pass-out to mooch off down-town aSahurda.

One admires the preservation of ancient customs.

The brother was makin’ inquiries about the pubs. Peepin’ in here and there, askin’ an odd question, chattin’ the curates, maybe takin’ an odd sip for himself on the QT. Do you know what the brother says?

I do not.

The brother says there’s stuff been got ready.

Indeed?

The brother says there’s special stuff been got ready for the Christmas.

You mean inferior and poisonous potions?

The brother says there’s lads below in cellars at the present time gettin’ stuff ready be the bucketful. They do be below in the daytime mixin’ stuff in firkins. Whiskey by yer lave. For the Christmas. Two bob a glass.

Surely the police should be informed?

There’s mixtures been made up that was never made up before. This year it’s goin’ to be the works altogether.

Surely the reputable houses in their own interest should communicate with the police?

I’ll tell you another thing. The brother says there’s a black market in turps.

Indeed?

Yer men use a lot of turps, for the mixtures, you know. Turps, sherry-wine and a drop of the Portuguese brandy that was brought in early in the war. That’s yer glass of malt. And I’ll tell you a funny wan. Do you know what a glass of fine old brandy is, three and six a knock?

I do not.

Turps and sherry-wine.

You astound me.

The brother says the North of Ireland crowd is goin’ to be sorry men.

You mean the undiscerning stranger will be poisoned?

And there’s wan particular crowd gettin their own cigars and cigarettes ready, the brother says. Word’ll be sent round that so-and-so has bags of cigarettes and your men will all march in and do their drinkin’ there. First they’ll get the sherry-wine and the turps. Then on top of that the special fags got ready downstairs be the boss himself. And goin’ out, a half-naggin of turps. for the mornin’.

I sincerely hope you exaggerate.

That’s why the brother is gettin’ up the conversasioney for the Sahurda. Here’s me bus. Happy Christmas now and mind yerself!

Good-bye, and thanks!

Cheers now.

From December 20th, 1944